Well, I’ve avoided it for as long as possible, but I think I have to admit something.
I’m not a kid anymore.
Am I an adult? I donno. I don’t really feel like one. I feel like a kid playing dress up in my mother’s clothes and then when I look at all the other kids (the real kids) I realize that I don’t really fit in with them anymore.
I don’t think it’s a bad thing that I feel like this. But it does mix up some fears.
Let me start at the beginning…
Husband and I just moved out of our one bedroom apartment into a two bedroom (but now one bedroom one “library”) house. I love it. I adore it. We can breathe in it and not choke the other person with our recently exhaled breath.
Moving was stressful, yes. All moving is. But it was welcomed. Since 2006 I have lived in either a dorm or this one bedroom apartment. Yes, there were vacations where I spent time at my parents house, but my space was always … on the smaller side.
What does this have to do with growing up? Well, apart from the obvious (it’s a house) I’m getting there.
So, I meet the neighbors that are two doors down. They’re a super sweet couple. A bit older than me (maybe in their early 30’s late 20’s) but my age. With two little kids.
Here’s where I start to feel awkward. In my life I have always been friends with the “children” in a family unit. My college best friends don’t have kids (yet – most are still single or getting married) and didn’t have kids in college. It’s not like I befriended Husband’s parents and then met him and got married. I have always been in that kid role. Understand?
Now, I’m not. I’m relating to the parents and they are my peers. Not the other way around.
And yes – still, I am okay with this.
But at the same time it kinda freaks me out.
And I feel it’s not for the obvious reason of leaving childhood behind and facing my own mortality and all that hoopla.
It’s because I’m scared my writing will suffer. I feel like I’m finally growing into my skin as the writer I want to be. Having to rewrite Chapter 1 has been so much fun and given me a chance to enjoy the characters a little bit before I turn their lives to hell.
But I write YA – YOUNG ADULT fiction. Will I be an adult that can still capture that voice, those feelings, everything that makes a young adult what they are once I’m totally through that phase? Will my work still be relatable or will readers pick up my stuff and toss it aside as crap because I can’t tap into that teenager/early 20’s side of me?
Honest to God, it freaks me the hell out. I don’t have an answer on how to fix it either. Not even a game plan.
Updates on this matter in the future. Because despite being scared, I’m also determined (or freakishly stubbon as many might call it) and I will keep writing and I will keep telling the stories that are in my head that need to be told.